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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118676">physician, heal thyself</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamnesisUnending/pseuds/anamnesisUnending'>anamnesisUnending</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Penumbra Podcast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Attempted Impromptu Surgery (non-graphic), Canon-Typical Juno and Vespa Bickering, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Non Canon-Typical Letting Juno and Vespa Say The Fuck Word. Perhaps In Excess., past trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:47:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,587</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23118676</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/anamnesisUnending/pseuds/anamnesisUnending</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Vespa's a doctor. a good one. she'll be fine, she can fix this, and no one else will have to know.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Buddy Aurinko/Vespa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>123</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>physician, heal thyself</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The four hundred and thirty two steps from the landing bay of the Carte Blanche to the infirmary are the longest she’s ever taken in her life. She’s walked father on worse breaks before, but those were different. Those were when she was alone, or when she only had to hide her injuries from the cruelly indifferent eyes of the Board in Cerberus. Now she has to evade the prying eyes of her crewmates—her <em>family</em>, as Buddy would insist—and Buddy, her too-careful concern laser-focused on Vespa. But they have words for this, for when she needs to be alone, when she doesn’t want to answer questions, when the rest of the world is just <em>too much</em>—so in the end she manages to sneak off to the infirmary, suppressing the instinct to limp while bracing herself for each step.</p><p>Her ankle is all but unbearable to walk on now. By all rights she should stay off it for at least a week to give the bone sealant time to set properly, but she <em>can’t.</em> Can’t be <em>useless</em> for that long, can’t let them know. If she can get some screws in it to hold the bones in place while they heal, she’ll be able to get by. It might hurt for a while—hell, it might hurt for the rest of her <em>life, </em>but it’s better than the alternative.</p><p>She knows what the rest of them must think: <em>simple supply run was too much for the broken doctor. She can’t even pull her own weight, much less keep up with the rest of us.</em> She grits her teeth on the words so hard she thinks her molars will crack. She can’t focus on that right now—hard enough to focus already without the thought of their derision: there are figures pulling at her peripheral vision, half-human and shadowy, and an incessant noise crackling like radio static but <em>worse</em> somehow, in a way she can’t put words to. And there’s the way the pain manifests as a blinding red light behind her eyelids every time she blinks, not a hallucination but a testament to how much it hurts.</p><p>She knows the infirmary though, not in an instinctive and forgettable way like the back of her hand, but like she knows anatomical diagrams and floorplans, mapped out in immaculate detail. She finds what she needs: local anaesthetic, a syringe from the cabinet where she keeps her estrogen, painkillers—non-narcotics she keeps on hand for Jet, bone sealant, scalpel, screws, and metal plating. She holds her breath to keep from crying out as she pulls off her combat boots. Cuts away the part of her leggings covering the break, revealing one giant, swollen bruise. Ices it. Disinfects the area. Readies the anaesthetic.</p><p>It’s only when she’s holding the bottle and syringe in her hand that she realizes how much she’s trembling. She’s been so focused on not getting caught, on fixing this before anyone else has to find out, that she’s rushed and worked herself up into a frenzy. There was a time in her life when she would’ve been horrified to even consider such a slapdash surgery job, back when she ran a legitimate practice. In the intervening years, making do with scraps as a field medic, she’s developed a stronger stomach, but that’s still no reason to be so careless. She slows down, tries to ground herself, breathing deliberately and counting the seconds of inhalations and exhalations. Trying to inhabit her own body, focusing on the cold of the antiseptic on her leg, and not on the sounds and sights that surround her.</p><p>Which is probably why she doesn’t notice she’s not alone until—</p><p>“Wait, what are <em>you</em> doing here?” Juno accuses.</p><p><em>“Fuck!”</em> Vespa startles, jarring her broken bone, pricking herself and dropping the syringe in the process. “What the fuck are <em>you</em> doing here?” she snaps back at him.</p><p>“I just needed some allergy meds, okay, you don’t have to— hang on, is that a fucking <em>drill? </em>What the hell <em>happened</em> to you?”</p><p>Vespa can feel her pulse racing, like there are fire ants in her veins. He’s closing in on her, and it makes her feel trapped, but it’s not like she can run and it’s not like there’s anyone to help. She searches for words, but only manages an incoherent snarl.</p><p>“Did you like, break your leg or something? Shit, why were you <em>walking</em> on that? Does Buddy know?”</p><p>“<em>Don’t,”</em> she rasps. Buddy doesn’t know. Buddy <em>can’t </em>know. She picks her syringe back up and catches his eyes for a second, all wide and incredulous. She tries to breathe again but it’s too fast, too shaky. She starts talking—babbling, almost—more to herself than to him. “I just need to fix this. I just— just need to set the bone and stabilize it and then I’ll be fine, I’ll be ready for the next job, and I won’t be dead weight, and—”</p><p>“Hold the fuck up,” Juno interrupts.</p><p>“<em>Shut up, Steel,” </em>she snaps.</p><p>“No,” he says, jabbing a finger towards her, “This is ridiculous. You get to threaten me at knifepoint when I try to get off bed rest a day early, and then drill some fucking screws into your broken leg and say you’re <em>fine?</em>”</p><p>“I wasn’t threatening you at knifepoint, I just talk with my hands and I <em>happened</em> to be holding a knife, okay? And it’s— that doesn’t matter, just <em>don’t tell Buddy</em>,” she says, hating that she’s pleading with <em>him,</em> of all people.</p><p>It’s all in vain anyway. White hot panic sears through her body as Juno lifts his comms to dial Buddy’s number. Hotter even than the shock of pain that spikes outward from her broken ankle, as she lunges towards him with a wild shriek, both of them crashing to the ground. She grapples with his hands, finally seizing the device and gripping it close to her chest as she curls in on herself, taking in air only in whimpering gasps. His hand lands on her shoulder—trying to steal back his comms—but she easily wrests herself from his grip. “<em>Stop it,”</em> she sobs, her voice torn raw and tears streaming down her face. There’s too much noise, the sense of hands, <em>claws</em> clutching at her, but all of a sudden none of it is coming from Juno.</p><p>“Uh… Vespa?” Juno says, quiet, in that crossroads of confusion, judgement, and pity. She can’t see him, but she knows he’s staring, knows all the words he’s thinking to call her, when she’s gone.</p><p>She only lets out another sob in response. And slowly she realizes how quiet it really is. Quiet enough to hear all the way out into the hall, where a set of high-heeled footsteps are clicking rapidly closer. The door swings open again, and she can’t look, can’t—</p><p>“Darlings?” Buddy says. “What in <em>Saturn’s eleven hells</em> is going on here?”</p><p>Vespa can only suck in a ragged gasp, while Juno stammers uncomfortably, and eventually sputters out, “She took my comms.”</p><p>Vespa’s still curled up on her side, forehead pressed against her knees, face hot with tears. She can’t see Buddy, but she can picture the look on her face—sternness made gentler by confusion and concern, hands on her hips as she surveys the room.</p><p>“That hardly seems a comprehensive explanation, Juno.”</p><p>But rather than waiting for one, Buddy’s heels click closer and closer, and she kneels down beside Vespa. She can almost sense the warmth of Buddy’s hand hovering over her shoulder blade, but she doesn’t touch. Vespa lets herself unfurl, just enough to see Buddy’s face, and when she looks up Buddy’s not looking back at her, but at the table by the medical cot, still strewn with surgical instruments.</p><p>When she looks down at Vespa again, her one eye shines with worry. “Darling, what happened? Are you hurt?”</p><p>Some force beyond logic, or even conscious thought compels Vespa to shake her head.</p><p>Juno clears his throat. “I think her leg is broken.”</p><p>“Is that so,” Buddy murmurs, almost distantly. “Well, Juno, if that’s the case I think I’d rather let Vespa explain that herself. Vespa, would you give our detective his comms back?”</p><p>Vespa lets her fingers uncurl, like letting life back into stone. They ache with the release of tension. She doesn’t manage to sit up just yet, so Buddy takes the comms from her hands and slides it across the floor to Juno.</p><p>“I assume you came here looking for something else as well; did you find it?” she asks.</p><p>Juno shakes his head. “Uh… allergy medicine?”</p><p>Buddy starts to stand to help him look, but before she rises to her feet Vespa croaks out, “Starboard side, middle cabinet, bottom shelf.”</p><p>“The hell is a starboard?” Juno mutters, mostly to himself.</p><p>“She means the wall by the door, dear.” She rubs Vespa’s shoulder. “Thank you, love.”</p><p>Juno slinks out of the room, leaving the two of them alone. Vespa shifts so that she’s lying on her back. She’s no less tense than before, afraid if she lets herself relax at all she’ll be completely unravelled. Buddy smooths back the hair sticking to her forehead, lets her hand rest there for a moment as if to rub all the anxieties out of Vespa’s brow, as though hers isn’t creased just the same.</p><p>“Would you like to tell me what happened?” she says softly.</p><p>Vespa bites her quivering lip. She doesn’t <em>want </em>to. Her face is still tear-streaked and flushed red with shame, and she’d like nothing more than to hide it against Buddy’s shoulder and not have to face the world again, but she owes this to her. They’d both known this would be difficult, being together again, dealing with their pasts, shared and separate. Love is easy. Loving is work.</p><p>“I broke my ankle on the way out. Slipping down the elevator shaft. Don’t know how it happened, just caught on something and <em>twisted</em>.” She can still remember the sound of it, that awful wet crunch preceding her artless drop onto the concrete below. She’d felt all the blood drain from her face, nearly blacked out for a second. “But it’s fine, I made it out.”</p><p>“I’m so sorry, darling.”</p><p>“I’ve had worse.”</p><p>Buddy laughs a little bitterly. Vespa can almost hear the way she’s blaming herself in it. “Vespa, a broken ankle isn’t something you can just <em>walk off—</em>”</p><p>“I know that, Bud,” she insists.</p><p>“Then why in the galaxy would you try?”</p><p>Vespa jerks her head away so she doesn’t have to look at her, and Buddy’s hand stays poised above, the curl of her fingers fraught with anger or concern. Vespa can’t tell which.</p><p>“Darling, please, just help me understand.”</p><p>“Didn’t wanna be <em>useless</em>,” she mumbles.</p><p>Buddy’s taken aback. “Now where would you get a silly idea like that into your head?”</p><p>Vespa’s face burns with embarrassment. Of course Buddy would think it’s silly—Buddy’s never useless. Not when a job goes wrong and all her perfect plans go to waste, or when she’s simply not the right person for the job. Certainly, she isn’t useless when she can’t walk—when her knees or hips decide to dislocate all eight days a week. She’s just as much the captain in her wheelchair or leaning on a cane as she is any other day. And even when she’s out of commission with a migraine and all she can do is chug espresso and groan into a pillow in a dark room, she’s not useless, she’s just <em>Buddy</em>.</p><p>But—</p><p>Vespa feels her eyes well up again with scalding tears of anger. Her tag is still there under her sleeve, bulky and angular and wanting to bruise, just like a handcuff. She wants to pry it up from her wrist, claw at the skin underneath that’ll never see the sun again.</p><p>She sniffles and then chokes out, “What do you think the Board thought of debtors who couldn’t pull their weight? What do you think they did to us?”</p><p>How many people burned to death in the radiation because they couldn’t keep up to pay their contract? How many people died of complications for minor injuries because they didn’t have her medical experience, didn’t tell a soul, and pushed themselves too hard to pay off their debts? Vespa hadn’t counted. Vespa had kept her head down, gone against the doctor’s orders she would’ve given anyone else, because it was the only way to survive. Vespa is safe, and she never has to worry about her debts again, but the thought of getting injured, of showing any weakness still spikes terror through her veins. Maybe it always will.</p><p>“<em>Oh.”</em></p><p>Some sound halfway between a sob and a laugh wrenches itself from Vespa’s throat at Buddy’s sudden understanding. At all her pity and guilt.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, darling. I wish I could have saved you from that. If I’d just known—”</p><p>“Quit it,” Vespa snarls. “I didn’t ask you to save me. You don’t get to blame yourself for not knowing. Sometimes the damsel saves herself, gets her happily ever after, and she’s still a wreck and you don’t get to pretend you could’ve fixed it. You make it better and that’s all I can ask for.”</p><p>Vespa’s still scared to meet Buddy’s eyes, not knowing what she’ll find there. But Buddy just says a quiet, “Alright.” She takes a shaky breath. “Alright, dear, just tell me how I can make it better now.”</p><p>Vespa squeezes her eyes shut tight. “I don’t know,” she whispers.</p><p>The floor of the infirmary is cold beneath her. She turns her head to press her cheek against it, to remind herself where she is. And she listens for the sound of Buddy’s breathing, like she does every night to help herself sleep.</p><p>And she listens to the shifting of Buddy’s skirts as she rises to one knee and stoops down over Vespa, gently maneuvering one arm under the bend of her knees and another around her waist. It’s been a long time since Buddy’s held her like this. It isn’t so easy now, with how frail the years and radiation have made them both, but she does it all the same, sweeps Vespa up into her arms like a featherweight, like a bride. Holds her tight against her chest and lays a kiss against her forehead. Vespa had almost forgotten the way this felt when they were young, when it was all so new to her—being loved <em>right</em>, being loved as the woman she is and not as whoever anyone else expected her to be. She always feels so small in Buddy’s arms, not <em>less</em> than herself, but safe, protected. She never wants to forget this again.</p><p>Buddy has to set her down soon, but not before Vespa’s tears have made a wet patch on her shoulder. They sit side by side on the medical cot, Buddy’s arm still around Vespa’s waist, Vespa’s face still pressed into the crook of Buddy’s neck.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Vespa says.</p><p>“Don’t be,” Buddy says adamantly. “You’ve nothing to apologize for, never anything at all.”</p><p>Vespa laughs. “Don’t know about that, Bud.”</p><p>“Never,” Buddy insists. “Will you let me help you?”</p><p>Vespa nods, and Buddy stays by her. Keeps a gentle hand on her knee while Vespa sets her broken ankle, holds her hands until they steady enough to administer the bone sealant. <em>Loves</em> her, as she patches up her own broken pieces. Just as she always has.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've had the idea for this fic in mind for a while--title included, which is a real rarity for me. The fact that I actually got it done now is probably a result of two things: 1) I had to make more Vespa content after the new ep, and 2) at All times, but especially in the middle of a pandemic, no one should have to go to work sick or injured. everyone should have paid sick leave, including and especially "unskilled" workers.</p><p>Anyway, hope you enjoyed this fic!</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23346958">[PODFIC] physician, heal thyself</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaintlyMacabre/pseuds/FaintlyAudible">FaintlyAudible (FaintlyMacabre)</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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